‘Yes, absolutely. I was invited to a party at their mansion house in the country. Castletown, I think it’s called.’
‘Bernard! And you’re only telling me this now?’
He ponders for a moment, then says, ‘I’m just wondering if it would be a breach of ethics for me to talk to you about it, with the case and everything …’
‘Are you mad? Of course it wouldn’t be!’
He weighs it up for a minute, then decides that on balance it’s probably OK.
‘They invited me to a party, essentially so they could show off A Lady of Letters. The whole Art History faculty was invited and I must say, their hospitality really was to be commended. Do you know, they served the most wonderful fork supper after a sumptuous drinks reception and even had specially chosen vintage wines to complement each course? I particularly remember a very rare Chablis, a 1962 if I recall—’
‘Bernard, love, never mind about the 1962 Chablis,’ I interrupt, knowing full well that once he starts talking about food and wine, there’ll be no shutting him up. ‘Tell me about the Kings at the party.’
‘Well do you know it really was the most extraordinary thing. Kate King was there, naturally, but seemed terribly overwrought and stressed. At that time you see we had a visiting professor at City College who happened to be working very closely with Damien King; apparently she was helping him to gift a sizable donation. The plan was that he’d set up a King foundation so his art collection could tour internationally.’
‘And?’ I say, all ears.
‘Well it seems Mrs King got a bee in her bonnet about this particular visiting professor, who was rather young and attractive, as I recall. And Mrs King seemed to assume that she was carrying on some kind of ding-dong with her husband.’
I’m on the edge of my seat now, but then I think I can guess what’s coming. And by the way ‘ding-dong’, would be Bernard-speak for having an affair. Anything remotely sexual he tends to coat over in nursery school language. When we’re in bed together, it’s not unlike being in bed with an Enid Blyton book. Pet names for everything: willies, boobs, the works.
‘So what happened?’
‘Well Kate King disappeared off for a bit while the rest of us were all having a perfectly lovely time of it. Then I distinctly remember she didn’t appear for the supper, which seemed odd given that she was our hostess. Damien King said she had a migraine, but of course no one believed him, if anything the lady seemed to be three sheets to the wind. But right after supper, we were all asked to congregate around A Lady of Letters and in she came, practically spewing fire, the poor lady.’
‘What did she say?’
‘Oh, sausage, does it really matter? The fact is that her marriage has broken up now, the painting has disappeared and now she’s in court accused of art theft. If anything, the poor lady deserves our sympathy.’
‘Bernard! I really need to know what happened at that party, it might be important for the case.’
He looks troubled though and doesn’t even bother helping himself to a chocolate Hobnob from the packet in front of him. Most unlike him.
‘Now you know that wouldn’t be ethical, Tess. All I will say without prejudice is that the talk of the party afterwards was that old truism.’
‘Which one?’
‘That hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.’
KATE
The Chronicle
15th November, 2007
LET THEM EAT CAKE!
Kate’s blow-out birthday bash costs in excess of €200,000!
Last night at their palatial mansion, Castletown House in County Wicklow, Kate King hosted a lavish costume ball to celebrate her husband Damien’s fortieth birthday. And we can exclusively reveal that the cream of Irish high society were all present and correct – all four hundred and fifty of them, to be precise.
The host and hostess looked utterly resplendent, as ever, dressed as Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette. Kate looked particularly breathtaking in a gold lame dress designed for her by Jenny Packham and said to be an exact replica of the gown worn by Grace Kelly in the costume ball scene of To Catch a Thief.
Property mogul Joe Kennedy and his beautiful wife Mo were among the assembled glitterati, with Mo utterly stunning in a red wig and elaborate costume, dressed as Elizabeth I. The Cassidys, billionaire owners of Cassidy’s Oil, also looked notably striking as Danny and Sandy from Grease and let’s not forget Clive Fay, also from Globtech Ireland, and his wife Constance, who came as Jay Gatsby and Daisy Buchanan.
Other notables included the Minister for Finance, who came as a particularly terrifying Dracula. Although maybe he’d just come straight from Government buildings, it was hard to tell. Meanwhile His Excellency, the Honorary Consul to Monaco, chose to play it safe, dressed as Simon Cowell in a most uninspiring white Gap t-shirt, jeans and stacked Cuban heels. His wife on the other hand was a little more adventurous as Alice in Wonderland, complete with a toy white rabbit clamped to her arm for the night.
Kate, our glittering hostess, spared no expense in making this the party of the year with a Bollinger reception to greet guests, including a champagne fountain which flowed freely for the entire night, ‘even when the room was empty’ as one astonished guest later told us.
The evening began with guests lining up to greet the Kings, who were seated side-by-side on specially constructed golden thrones, French Empire-style. Then followed a seven-course banquet served on gold plates in the ballroom at Castletown House, which had been made to resemble an exact replica of the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles, right down to chandeliers and rococo ceilings specially imported for the party. After-dinner entertainment was kicked off by no one less than Bono himself, who’d agreed to give a special impromptu performance at the party, as Damien King allegedly is a huge fan.
Meanwhile each guest was gifted a specially crafted goodie bag from ‘good King Louis and Marie Antoinette’, containing tiny gold tie pins for the gentlemen and skin care products from MAC for the ladies.
As Kate King posed for photographers on her throne, our reporter asked how she felt about spending so much on a party, when the rest of the country is in the throes of possibly the worst fiscal crisis since the Depression.
Was she, we wondered, at all concerned about hosting such a public and lavish celebration, given that many people not far from the Castletown estate were suffering evictions, seizure of assets and even bankruptcy?
‘Please don’t … this really isn’t a night to talk about money,’ was Kate’s initial tight-lipped reply. However, we persisted, asking how she could possibly justify spending so vast a sum on just one night.
‘Because it was what he wanted,’ she blushed, looking adoringly at her husband, Damien. ‘He works so hard for all this, you know. And besides, isn’t he worth it?’
TESS
The present
I’m not joking; the next day in court is like having a front row seat at the Oliver Daniels one-man tour de force show.
‘Three hundred grand a year, that’s what I heard he earns,’ hisses Jane beside me in the jury box, the woman who always looks so groomed and business-like, dressed head to toe in L.K. Bennett. I was yacking to her earlier and it turns out, at the age of sixty-two, she works for a start-up online recruitment agency set up by her son. She’s smart and efficient and I already like her.
We were all given croissants and coffee in the jury room before the case kicked off at 10 a.m. this morning – the croissants were rubbery and the coffee all watery and lukewarm, of course, but still, a welcome gesture. Anyway, I got chatting to a few of our disparate gang and so far they seem lovely, with the notable exception of red-trouser guy, who I’ve discovered is called Ian and who’s a used-car salesman.
No messing, his eyes actually glazed over when I told him that, no thanks, I wasn’t in the market for a new car, so instead he targeted Jess, a forty-something mum of four; the same lady who turned up in what looked like PJs yesterday and who’s in a baggy, oversized jumper today with what I’d
swear is the dregs of mashed banana caked to the arm of it, almost like the poor thing came straight here from giving her kids brekkie and carting them off for the school run. Ian took her in with a quick up-and-down glance and was straight onto her like a limpet.
‘So what do you drive?’ he asked her, the man-bracelets rattling annoyingly.
‘A ten-year-old knackered Mazda, that might as well have “taxi” written on the top of it,’ she tells him, ‘I spend that much time ferrying my kids around.’
‘Yeah, but would you not consider changing it? I’d give you a fantastic deal, you know. I’d look after you.’
‘Ian, I haven’t slept in two years,’ Jess replied sharply, ‘and this is basically the first time in weeks that I’ve spent with a group of adults and without my toddler, my four-year-old and my two pre-teens screaming at each other in the background. Do you honestly think that changing my car is a priority in my life right now? The only thing I’d change the car for right now is a bus pass, so at least I’d have an excuse not to chauffeur my family around any more.’
Which instantly shuts Ian up. She caught me trying to hide a smile and gave me a quick wink as if to say, ‘now that’s how you deal with the Ians of this world’.
I got chatting to Beth too, who I’ve discovered is a first year student at UCD, studying English and History.
‘So how are you fitting jury service around all your lectures?’ I ask her, dying to know.
‘It’s brilliant,’ she beams delightedly. ‘Thanks to this, I don’t have to sit an exam I was due to have next week. Just as well, because I hadn’t done a tap of work for it.’
Other than us though – and that guy Will who was slagging off my taste in music yesterday, and who arrives dead late and all out of breath this morning – the vast majority of our fellow jurors seem to be very much at the ‘active retirement’ stage of life and, to a man, are treating the case as a lovely piece of live entertainment, a pageant put on solely for their amusement.
Anyway, back to court. A lot of this morning’s evidence is technical and therefore has the potential to be deeply boring, but for the fact that Oliver Daniels has a wizard-like way of spinning drama even out of the most ordinary, banal details.
First witness is Detective Sergeant Joe McHugh, a beefy, stocky fifty-something guy with absolutely no neck at all, just a head, then shoulders.
He’s sworn in and Oliver Daniels is straight up onto his feet. ‘Detective Sergeant,’ he begins, ‘would you care to outline for the court the events of July 26th, 2014?’
‘Certainly,’ says the copper, and he then goes to flip open the cover on his iPad to refer down to his notes.
‘At precisely 11 a.m. on the morning in question, in the company of two junior detectives, I arrived at the home of Mr and Mrs King, Castletown House, County Wicklow.’
‘And I’m sure the purpose of this visit wasn’t a social call?’
‘Indeed it was not. A court order had been obtained by Mr Damien King from the Circuit Civil Court issuing a demand that the painting under contention, A Lady of Letters, be summarily returned to Mr King, its rightful owner.’
‘Objection!’ says Hilda Cassidy, Kate’s barrister, straight up on her feet, full of indignation. ‘Your Honour, that is precisely what we the Defence are here to contest. That Mr King is not, in fact, the rightful owner at all.’
My eye wanders across the room to where Kate King is sitting demurely, dressed head to toe in black today, which only seems to accentuate how ghostly white her face is. She looks like a woman who hasn’t eaten or slept in weeks, in stark contrast to her ex, who’s right behind Oliver Daniels looking swarthy and suntanned and even a bit relaxed about all this.
‘Sustained,’ says the judge. ‘Sergeant McHugh, I’d kindly remind you to pick your words a little more carefully.’
‘Oh … emm … sorry about that, Your Honour,’ says the sergeant, starting to sweat a little now, the stifling heat of the court clearly getting to him. But then it’s packed out in here today, even the public benches are jammed and as far as I can see, it seems to be standing room only at the back.
‘If you would be so good as to resume?’ says Oliver politely.
‘Certainly,’ the sergeant says. ‘We found Mrs King to be at home on the morning in question, so the court order was delivered forthwith and immediately.’
‘And did you outline to Mrs King precisely what this court order meant?’
‘I certainly did,’ says the sergeant, getting red in the face. ‘I personally took great care to explain to the Defendant that a court order meant that the painting was ordered by law to be returned immediately. And of course that failure to do so could result in prosecution.’
‘And did Mrs King comply with this court order?’
‘I’m afraid to say she did not. Sure isn’t that why we’re all sitting here?’
Titters around the court at that, which Judge Simmonds instantly silences.
‘Can you tell us about the events of September 15th, in your own words?’ Oliver prods, resuming questioning.
‘Well, a second order was issued on September 15th and then a third on October 24th. I served them all on Mrs King myself and took considerable pains to point out the seriousness of repeatedly breaching such an order.’
‘And did you search the property?’
‘Absolutely. On both occasions myself and my team conducted a thorough search and I can confirm that the item in question was definitely not at Castletown House.’
‘No further questions, Your Honour.’
A respectful bow from him and then Hilda is straight back up on her feet.
‘Just a few short questions, Your Honour,’ she says before turning to the witness box. ‘Sergeant McHugh, were you aware that a pre-nuptial agreement was in place between Mr and Mrs King?’
‘I may have read something about it in the paper, alright,’ the sergeant nods. ‘And my wife mentioned it too, but then she seems to know more about this case than I do myself, there’s been so much in the media about it.’
‘When the Defence get to open our case,’ Hilda goes on, speaking plainly and simply, ‘we’ll obviously be going into a lot more detail on this. But the critical thing is that under the clear and certain terms of this pre-nuptial agreement, all gifts bestowed on Mrs King throughout her marriage became her lawful property. They were hers and no one else’s.’
She pauses for a moment here, to really take in the jury and to make sure we’re all paying proper attention.
‘So my question is this, Sergeant. If someone called to your home and served a court order to you for something that was rightfully your property, say for instance a laptop or a valuable piece of jewellery, or something else that was of great value to you. Would you just hand it over without any argument?’
‘Well … no, I suppose I wouldn’t really,’ the sergeant trails off.
‘And if they were to serve you with a second court order, and even a third? Would you cave in to such bullying and intimidation, or would you hold firm and stand your ground?’
‘I’m not certain how to answer that really,’ says the sergeant, scarlet in the face now from the stuffiness in the room. ‘It’s a hypothetical situation really, isn’t it?’
‘No further questions, Your Honour.’
Now the hush around the courtroom earlier has turned to knowing nods and muttered comments.
‘Ooh, it’s getting nice and juicy now, isn’t it,’ whispers Edith excitedly from behind me.
‘They should cut the bloody thing in two and give them half of it each so that we can all go home,’ hisses an elderly man beside her, who I think is called Barney and who’s sitting back, arms folded, just drinking it all in.
‘We’ll take a lunch recess there, back at 2 p.m., please,’ says Judge Simmonds as the assembled court scatters to the four winds. However, for those of us on the jury, it seems that it’s a slightly more official affair.
Instead of being allowed to disappear off
to the nearest coffee shop and get an hour’s headspace away from everyone else, we’re all corralled onto a coach to whizz us off to a hotel not far from the court, a dingy-looking place called the Queen Street Arms that looks like it hasn’t seen a lick of paint since the 1980s. A fifty-something court usher with bullet-grey hair so ‘set’ looking that it’s almost like a helmet, introduces herself as Mona and tells us she’ll be accompanying us for the remainder of the case.
‘And I must at this point remind you that it’s strictly forbidden to discuss the case amongst yourselves, until both sides have been heard and you’re in the privacy of the jury room,’ she says bossily. ‘Nor are you permitted to check mobile phones or any electronic device for media coverage about the case. Posting on social media is also strictly forbidden.’
‘Posting on social what?’ says Ruth, a seventy-something lady who I’ve discovered is a tiny bit hard of hearing. She wears a hearing aid, which completely solves the problem, but sometimes forgets to turn it up fully.
‘She means like Facebook and Twitter,’ I tell her helpfully.
‘What the hell is Twitter?’
Next thing, we’re ushered into a private dining room with just the one dining table which seats exactly twelve, and it seems this is it. Like we’re being kept in some sort of isolation booth, shut out from the world, not even allowed to intermingle – God forbid – with other people in a normal restaurant.
Not that I can imagine from the state of the place and the overwhelming stink of boiled cabbage that anyone with half a choice would actually elect to eat here. This is the kind of ‘hotel’ that you drive past praying it’ll be turned into a car park someday and put out of its misery.
I’m last into the room and am angling for a seat beside either Beth, Jane or the sweet elderly lady with a walking stick who I’ve since discovered is called Minnie, but there’s only one seat left: beside Will, as it happens.
‘One hour for lunch and then, at exactly 13.55 hours, I’ll escort you to the coach which will drive you back to court,’ says Mona, crisply addressing the room. ‘So I suggest if you need a bathroom break, you go at 13.50 sharp. Judge Simmonds must not be kept waiting.’
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